Perhaps the only way to improve an already delicious sandwich is to have a beautiful woman make it. A beautiful woman like the Noonie's Girl.

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Before you even see her, you smell what's in her hands: bread. Noonie's Deli, makers of some of the best sandwiches in Vermont, is in an old converted marble works, and thick, sweet, doughy air squeezes out the screen door as you walk up. The smell that makes you think of her to this day. The screen door slams, and tall windows shower her with light as she saws through a loaf of honey oat.

She has a name, of course -- some earthly name, like Genny. But standing over the cutting board, laying cheddar and Black Forest ham between slabs of fresh bread, she's the Noonie's Girl. Everyone calls her that, only she doesn't know it. She's maybe five foot two, oaten hair, blue eyes, that smile. Adorable. If it's your turn and you land another sandwich maker, you stall, saying you haven't decided yet. You want her. After a minute, she arches her eyebrows and says, "Can I help you?" You squint at the menu you know by heart, faking a "Hmm" to stretch out the interaction a few more seconds. The Noonie's Girl grabs a warm loaf, reaches her miraculous little hands into the small bins of sprouts and neat piles of ham and turkey, pauses to flip her hair, spreads honey mustard around.